Picking up the Peices
by Forever Jake
Summary: A short beginning chapter. Baal and his followers are left with few options after his brothers are destroyed.


Baal, the Lord of Destruction, second of the Prime Evils and triumvir to the Throne of Hell, was impatient. And when Baal was impatient, people died.  
  
"Miserable little cretin," he intoned. "I don't know why I suffered your existence as long as I did, Uric. Failing to locate Mount Arreat for so long was bad enough, Uric, but this is too large a mistake for me to tolerate."  
  
The demon slave, rotating in the air as if on a spit, shrieked in anguish as ten thousand volts of magically summoned lightning surged through his meager form. Baal was often impatient these days, and he vented his impatience on those who did not please him. Most days, the victims were drawn at random from the endless ranks of enslaved mortal abominations or lesser hellspawn that filled his armies; other days, like today, some specific failure on the part of one minion or another would warrant a more personal torture session.  
  
Baal spoke again. "We could have starved out the elders in mere days, but with the supply caravan you let through, they will be able hole up in Harrogath for months on end! Because of you, our campaign has been delayed!"  
  
"Please, master," the impish slave screamed, "why should we waste our time with Harrogath anyway?"  
  
The Prime Evil's finger twitched again, and the invisible axis about which the unfortunate in question was orbiting suddenly shifted. The artificial lightning vanished, and a moment of relief spread visibly over the victim's face. The calm was short-lived, however, and new pain flooded the wretch's mind as flames erupted across its skin.  
  
"Fool," Baal replied to the smoldering figure. "You would have me leave the paltry Barbarians alone... you fear their power, and in your fear, you forget that only the elders of Harrogath can tell me what I need to know. Only they know the true location of Mount Arreat, and the prize I seek."  
  
Bored with his toy, Baal sighed and allowed the charred form of the creature to drop to the dusty ground. The creature had fallen silent, and was probably dead; he would have his living slaves remove it in a few minutes.  
  
He growled in anger. His impatience had intensified with every setback, and the torture of his underlings was becoming less and less satisfying. If only his forces could capture a minor angel, or even some Light-touched mortal or natural guardian, then perhaps his frustration could be alleviated, at least for a time...  
  
It was not the lack of good fodder that frustrated him, however. Somewhere, perhaps nearby, the Worldstone lay, hidden and out of reach. He had by now spent many months in the frozen wastes, and he was visibly no closer to claiming it. He knew it was housed within an ancient keep atop a mountain known as Arreat, which was holy to the Barbarian tribes, but this information was of little aid; every peak and valley in the Barbarians' lands had some sacred purpose or holy power, and many had crumbling fortresses or palisades at their summits. Which one was Arreat?  
  
Supposedly, the Barbarian 'Elders', who were sages or something similar, could tell him, but thus far they had avoided capture. He had hoped to cut them off in Harrogath, their chief city, and starve them out, but this most recent of his armies' many failures and setbacks seemed to have annulled that possibility for some time. Now, he would have to sit and wait, and hope against hope that the Elders didn't decide to make martyrs of themselves.  
  
Baal envied his brothers, Mephisto and Diablo, for their skills in corruption and intrigue. Either of them could have easily frightened or embittered one or more of the Elders into betraying Arreat's location. Diablo had managed to overtake Lazarus, one of the Light's most pious defenders, and Mephisto had conquered the whole of the Zakarum church. Why, then, had one of them not come here for the Worldstone? Baal's powers of desolation and death were no use against those from whom he required information, and thus needed alive! Why was this his task to accomplish?  
  
Because the others were too busy with other ventures, he knew. Mephisto was ever expanding his taint of mortal civilization through its core, the church in Kurast, in preparation for the coming war, and Diablo was yet engaged with Belial and Azmodan over control of Hell's vast armies. Baal wondered, briefly, why he and his younger brother had not exchanged their objectives; surely, the Lord of Destruction could better utilize his powers in battle with the dissidents of Hell's hosts, just as Terror would be better suited for the sort of corruption the Worldstone and its keepers necessitated.  
  
Perhaps, he thought, Diablo sought some alliance with the lesser Evils, at least temporarily. Such a pact would make the coming invasion go more smoothly and preclude unnecessary demonic casualties, and it would explain why Diablo had been the one to do it; for all his prowess in combat, Baal was not the thinker that his brothers were. In ages past, he had thought his might sufficient to tackle any obstacle, but now he wondered if perhaps, in choosing might over cunning, he had gotten the short end of the deal.  
  
It didn't matter the reason, anyway; Diablo had been the one to free his brothers, not the other way around, so he got decide who got what task. All where necessary if the invasion to come was to be executed as planned, and none would be easy, no matter which demon carried them out.  
  
There was a glimmer of movement on the slopes below; someone was approaching his mountainside camp. Eager to fulfill his taste for torture, the Prime Evil looked towards the source of the movement, in hopes that it was some slave he could punish for disturbing his meditations. He was disappointed to see that it was an impish little demon of some sort - bearing a flag with the insignia of Hell.  
  
"So," Baal said to himself, "the great Diablo decides he has something to tell his brother after all. How nice." He watched as the tiny demon teleported from rock to rock, ascending in mere seconds what would have been a steep, hours-long climb. Moments later, in fact, the tiny imp reached the edge of the camp. It immediately saw Baal and ran towards him. Baal's guards, who stood a respectful distance away from their master and his victim, looked up as the imp approached; seeing the emblem of Diablo that marked the creature's banner, however, they did not move to block its path.  
  
"Greetings, Lord," the imp said, planting the banner of Terror at Baal's feet and shivering. It immediately summoned up flames in its hands to warm itself.  
  
"Who are you, whelp?" Baal growled impatiently.  
  
"I am called Greyhex, Lord." The tiny imp rubbed its claws together in nervousness; obviously, he was in no hurry to share his news with the Lord of Destruction.  
  
"I see you bring word from the Lord of Terror, Greyhex," Baal said. "What is it?"  
  
"I am afraid I am to be the bearer of ill tidings, Lord." The minor demon shivered again. Baal bristled in irritation, and the imp hurriedly whispered, "Diablo and Mephisto have fallen!"  
  
"Do not trifle me with trivial matters," Baal grunted. "My brothers have fallen before, and each time they have risen anew."  
  
"Lord," the imp said slowly, "the Archangel Tyrael has seen to it that your brothers' Soulstones were destroyed! They cannot be revived!"  
  
Baal shuddered involuntarily. He had felt the surges of power that had been released when his brothers had died, but he had not then understood their implications. If this 'Greyhex' was to be believed, Baal was the very last of the Prime Evils, the trio of demons that had held sway over the mortal world for eons.  
  
"Why should I trust your word, Greyhex?" Baal hissed.  
  
"Because I bear the very shard of your brother's Soulstone as proof!" The demon squeaked. As it said this, it tugged at a chain around its neck, pulling out a tiny, glowing object as smooth and sharp as the face of a diamond. Greyhex offered this up to Baal, who took it and eyed it closely. Baal had to admit, the shard did resemble the stone that had once bound his youngest brother, though it was charred and scratched - of course, if the imp was to be believed, that could be explained by the Archangel's sundering of the stone.  
  
"It would appear," Baal admitted, "that you are telling the truth." He paused, looking back and forth several times between the tiny slice of gemstone and equally diminutive Greyhex.  
  
"Very well," he said at last. "Tell me your tale." 


End file.
